Assassin

I found an old picture of you:
your smile, shining with the joy
of love’s delight;
your eyes, focused on me
as I, focused on you,
photographed.

Was it by the beach,
or in some country park,
that light-sensitive cells
captured your face,
transmitting to this post-separation now
what once was?

Time smooths the rough edges of grief;
muffles voices,
blurs images,
until all that’s left
are the heart’s unsteady memories –

but this rogue photograph,
striking like a knife in the dark,
dismembers me,
brings into sharp relief
the hidden past,

until my eyes,
bloodshot with remembering,
can only weep.

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